


fragility of diamonds

by Iris_Duncan_72



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Role Reversal, even though he's not actually a witcher this time, spare a hug for your witcher pls he really needs it, they're very soft oki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23050297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_Duncan_72/pseuds/Iris_Duncan_72
Summary: Jaskier is pursuing an old story about a princess locked away in a tower. He finds the princess and he finds the tower, but all is not as it seems.(Heknewthat witch wasn't telling him everything.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 337





	fragility of diamonds

The story is this:

There once was a princess with silver hair and golden eyes, her nature spirited and bold. As she grew into a young woman, her beauty matured and her skills with the blade were near unmatched so, naturally, she drew in many potential suitors. Princes and kings and lords and sorcerers and wealthy merchants and all manner of men besides. They numbered so greatly that her parents could not decide which offer to accept. Which would be wisest? Which would be most lucrative? Which would satisfy the princess's fierce heart?

Eventually, they sought counsel from the most powerful wizard in the kingdom, who lived in the Moon Tower, tall and lonely, deep in the wild forests. He suggested the king and queen set a test of the sort which only the most suitable candidates would be able to pass. They should publicly issue the challenge, with the princess's hand in marriage as the prize for the first to pass. This idea pleased the king and queen and they bade the wizard devise such a test. He agreed too do so.

But when they returned home, the palace was in uproar. The princess was nowhere to be found! She had simply vanished. The only clue as to what had happened was a scroll tied with silver ribbon on the dais in the throne room. The king opened it and read out the message, which declared that the princess was being held in the Moon Tower and whosoever could retrieve her would win the challenge. The notice was broadcast throughout the lands and from far and wide, would-be suitors travelled to the forest where the wizard and his Moon Tower resided. Only it seemed that they had disappeared, too. The forest was searched extensively, even by other magic users on behalf of the Crown, but there was no trace of the wizard or the Tower or the princess. The kingdom raged and grieved for the loss of their gold-eyed princess, none more so than her parents, and they went to their graves early with their daughter still lost on the wind.

Or so the story goes.

  


  


  


Jaskier loves stories. This is good, as his job is to record them, reinvent them, and sometimes put them to music. In times gone by, he reckons he might’ve been a wandering minstrel but as it is he’s a poet and a bard and a very well-paid one at that, what with his patron being part of a royal court. As such, Jaskier is always on the look out for new material, new inspiration, so when he comes across the tragic tale of the princess and the Moon Tower, he gleefully sets about hunting down its origins. Even tales as wildly fantastical as that have to come from _somewhere_ , right? He could easily imagine an argument between a royal family and a sorcerer ending badly for an unsuspecting princess caught in the crossfire. And even if he doesn’t find much, which has certainly happened before, well, who knows what else he might come across along the way? (It is precisely this attitude that got him disinherited by his own family a decade ago, but it's stood him in remarkably good stead in the royal court.)

His search eventually leads him to a small village on the edge of a thickly forested valley. The folk there are surprisingly welcoming for such a remote community and as Jaskier explores the extent of the village, he wonders what sort of business they run as there can’t be more than two or three hundred people living here. Given how outdated much of their technology and lack thereof is (the single inn has no plumbing whatsoever), he amends his assessment to include the possibility of the settlement being entirely self-sufficient. Another interesting thing Jaskier swiftly notes is the way people become wary and taciturn when he asks after the story of the Moon Tower.

 _Wouldn’t know nought about that_ , one man says, making an old protective sign against harm with his hand.

 _Nothin’ good comes of tellin' tales ‘bout wizards an' witches,_ a woman tells him sternly.

Jaskier wonders who they’re all afraid of, or protecting. The answer comes to him more directly than expected, on his second night at the village's single inn. He’s downstairs having his supper in the cosy warmth of the bar, quietly observing the rest of the patrons, who are only here for the food and drink.

‘So you’re the one who’s set the fox among the chickens then,’ comes a cool voice.

He jerks around in his seat, eyes widening as he beholds a striking woman with a dusky complexion, black velvet dress, and piercing violet eyes. Often-ignored survival instincts whisper in his ear that she’s dangerous, probably a magic user of some kind, and if he doesn’t wish to be turned into a frog he should tread carefully.

‘I, uh,’ Jaskier stammers. ‘I’m sorry?’

She exhales through her nose, short and irritated, before sitting opposite him. ‘Don’t lie to me, wordsmith.’

He blinks, startled. ‘Um. Right. It’s, uh, it's Jaskier, by the way.’

‘I know,’ is the dry response. ‘You must’ve told at least half the village your name by now.’

Jaskier leans back in his chair, trying to figure out where this conversation is going and what the chances are of him becoming an amphibian. ‘And by what name may I call you, madam?’

The faintest hint of a smile. ‘Yennefer.’

She tilts her head slightly, thick black hair sliding over her shoulders, and Jaskier has the vague understanding that lesser men might easily lose their minds watching her. Jaskier would almost certainly be one of them if he didn’t have some experience with sorcerers, and he forces his gaze away, glaring a hole in the bar instead.

Yennefer chuckles, husky and low. ‘Clever wordsmith.’

‘You needn’t bother with enchantments if my questions are unwelcome, Lady Yennefer,’ he grits out, banking on the one constant in the universe to help him out here (sorcerers are invariably vain creatures). ‘I’ve no desire to be turned into a cockroach and stamped on. If you want me to leave, I shall do so at once.’

Yes, Jaskier usually keeps his survival instincts buried down nice and deep where he can’t hear them scream, but as he’s not in the habit of courting death, he has been known to listen to them on occasion.

‘You mistake my intentions,’ Yennefer says, amused. ‘It is not my place to chase you away, but surely you know the story? The wizard’s tests were designed to weed out the unfit suitors from the rest.’

Jaskier almost sprains something in his neck as he whips his head around to stare at her with wide eyes. ‘You – is this – am I –?’

Another sensual laugh. ‘No, this is not the challenge your tale speaks of. But you pursue it, yes? You pursue the princess in her tower.’

Jaskier sags in his seat as the tension rushes out of him. Sweet Melitele, he can’t tell up from down with this witch. Still, he shakes his head and tentatively corrects her. ‘I’m not here for a fabled princess. If I wanted to marry, I think I’d go for someone a little more attainable. No, my calling lies in wordcraft.’

‘You're here for... the story?’ Yennefer sounds doubtful, but Jaskier nods quickly.

‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘The tale of the Moon Tower isn’t one I’d heard until recently and even then, only briefly. It is not a well-known story, it seems, but it has all the elements of one. So, why not track it down and weave it into a great ballad fit for the court of a queen?’ In his enthusiasm, he’s learned forward somewhat and, realising this, Jaskier sits back with a flush.

‘Well, who am I to argue with that?’ Yennefer says, looking mildly impressed. ‘When you spin your ballad, wordsmith, this shall be the part where you recount how the witch approved your quest and bid you continue to the first test.’

Jaskier chokes unattractively on air, feeling like the carpet has been yanked out from under his feet for the second time in as many minutes.

Continuing regardless, Yennefer tells him, ‘The suitors of old knew the location of the Moon Tower, yet they could not find it. Perhaps you, who does not know its location, will have more luck.’

She grins, eyes flashing bright and –

Jaskier stands on the edge of the forest, the trees looming tall in the evening light, and he staggers, his body confused at the sudden change of position. He spins in a drunken circle and sees the lights of the village a short distance away while the pack he'd left in his rented room lies at his feet. Jaskier takes only a moment to mourn his half-eaten meal and the soft bed he won't be sleeping on tonight before scooping up his bag and trudging into the forest with an air of grim determination. Apparently he has the witch's blessing to keep going, so he's hardly going to provoke her ire by dawdling any longer, is he?

  


  


  


If Yennefer's cryptic words are to be trusted at all, the fact that Jaskier has no idea where he's going will help him find the Moon Tower. With that thought in mind, he spends the next several days walking in whichever direction takes his fancy. Not once does he consult his map - if he's going to get lost, he's going to do it properly. It's late on the third day, shortly after Jaskier's settled on a main tune for his new ballad, when he comes across a shallow stream. Deciding he must be doing something right, he follows it through all its twists and turns.

Two days later, he is rewarded for his perseverance and the stream spits him out through the trees in a clearing at the foot of a grassy knoll, not large enough to be a hill. Sitting alone at the top is a slender tower of pale stone that far surpasses the height of the forest. Were this an ordinary tower, it would not be hard to spot from outside the forest, provided one had a good vantage point and a decent telescope, but even if Jaskier didn't understand exactly what he'd just stumbled upon he'd know it was magical. Power hums in the air, a weight against his skin and a tang on his tongue.

It hits him then, the realisation of what he's done, what he's found. His breath rushes out of his lungs like he's been kicked in the chest by a raging bull.

 _I'm usually_ writing _the stories, not living them,_ Jaskier thinks a touch hysterically and begins climbing the gentle slope.

A walk around the tower's perimeter reveals it has no windows, only a single door, the heavy wood old and weathered and bound not with dull iron but gleaming silver. There is a keyhole but no handle, so Jaskier gives an experimental push and is mildly surprised when it shifts. The door is heavy and requires a bit of shoving but soon he is inside. The room is round, of course, and very small, with barely enough space for the open door, Jaskier, and the stone spiral staircase which hugs the wall. A glance up sees the stairs disappearing into shadowy gloom with no end in sight and, after only a moment's hesitation, Jaskier sighs and deposits his pack on the floor. Perhaps this is not the wisest course of action but it's _heavy_ and that's a _lot_ of stairs, dammit. Naturally, his lute comes with him as he starts his climb. There's no railing so he stays as close to the wall as possible, squinting in the low light that emanates only from the silver-filled moon outlines engraved into each step, the full cycle taking about thirty steps and then repeating.

Jaskier's thighs and calves are burning with a vengeance by the time he reaches a tiny landing. Another door stands before him, illuminated by the dozen or so symbols stamped into the heavy wood in silver. Again, there is no handle, and he takes a moment to, firstly, catch his breath and secondly, prepare himself for whatever lies beyond the door. Laws of physics and other such trivialities don't seem to apply to sorcerers in the way they apply to most people so it's unlikely he'll find a broom cupboard-sized room holding the princess. Then again, he might just as easily find a fire-breathing dragon ready to devour him or be transported to the middle of the ocean. Really, Jaskier has no idea and should just open the damn thing before he loses his nerve.

He places his hand on the door, carefully avoiding any of the inscribed runes, and pushes it open, bracing himself for certain death -

Well.

_Huh._

Jaskier certainly didn't expect there to be so much hair. The room - tall and round and spacious and _with_ windows - is covered in it, yards and yards of silver-grey hair draped and looped and snaking and hanging over everything. It gleams in the sunlight pouring through the arched windows and is almost distracting enough to prevent Jaskier from noticing the woman sitting in the midst of it all. Her golden gaze is searing, however, and his attention is swiftly diverted, taking her in in a startled instant. She's small, clothed in a loose cream dress with a wide violet ribbon tied under her breasts, and the hair decorating the place is definitely attached to her head.

She's also wearing the sourest expression Jaskier has ever had the dubious honour of seeing in his life.

He hovers in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Myths and fairy tales rarely do anyone the service of going into any sort of detail about protocol and how to proceed without, say, getting eaten by the aforementioned dragon. But when nothing jumps out and swallows him up and the princess doesn't turn into a terrifying demon and crush his bones with a flick of her hand, Jaskier supposes a little boldness wouldn't go amiss.

'May I come in, er, Your Highness?'

He doesn't see a crown on her head but with how artfully and _chaotically_ all the hair has been spread out it's entirely possible there's a delicate diadem hidden somewhere. Besides, the tale _does_ specify princess and which young lady, especially one who's been sitting in a tower for Melitele knows how long, doesn't like being addressed as such in any case?

The princess heaves a sigh and nods as best she's able.

Jaskier purses his lips and crosses the threshold, relaxing slightly when he remains alive and unharmed. 'So,' he says cheerily, 'been here a while, hmm? Not to worry, I, the good bard Jaskier, will have you out of here in, um, well, however long it takes to get through the tests. Speaking of which, you wouldn't happen to know what those are, would you, Your Highness?'

Gold eyes flick heavenward briefly, as the princess is silently begging the gods for mercy, before they land on Jaskier again, sharp and commanding. There's a padded stool next to her which she pats, less inviting and more ordering. Wondering at her wordlessness, Jaskier crosses the room to her, ducking low-hanging ropes of silken hair and stepping over a few others. He sets his lute to one side and sits on the stool, notes that she is perched on one just like it, another by her far side. The third stool holds two large wooden combs with steel teeth, a bushel of purple ribbons, and a gleaming pair of scissors. The princess picks up one comb and makes a sweeping gesture over the stool, indicating Jaskier to choose an item of his own.

He hesitates, watching her. 'Is this the second challenge, Your Highness?' he asks quietly.

The delicate line of her jaw sharpens and she doesn't blink as she repeats her sweeping gesture but Jaskier notices how tightly she grips the comb. He takes the second comb, smiling delightedly when her shoulders sag in relief.

'Well, that wasn't so bad!' Jaskier exclaims. 'If it's all this easy - ouch!'

He breaks off abruptly when the princess smacks his knee with the heavy handle of her comb, glaring at him.

'Alright, alright,' he grumbles. 'Am I meant to comb all your hair or something?'

That was a joke but the surprised lift of perfectly arched white brows makes his stomach lurch. Oh gods. She nods. Oh _gods._

'Erm, Your Highness, not to shirk my self-imposed duty but you have, hmm, a _lot_ of hair. I'm not sure I could get through it all if I spent three days combing without cease!'

Apparently this is the wrong thing to say, as the princess flinches minutely, her chin lowering. Her expression is painfully lacking in hope and Jaskier sees resignation in every drooping line of her body.

Melitele's tits.

 _You're here for the story, you're here for the story,_ he chants to himself, before donning a cheerful smile. 'Ah, pardon me, Your Highness, I'm not usually such a quitter. If it takes three days, it takes three days. That's nothing compared with how long you've been here, I'm sure.'

She inhales sharply, lips parting as her head comes up again and oh _fuck_ , there goes Jaskier's heart with its wobbly shenanigans. There's an open sort of desperation in her golden eyes, a fierce yearning tempered by disbelief, and he wonders idly how many times she's had to watch her would-be rescuers leave because they lacked commitment when it came to such "menial" tasks as hair brushing. Happily, Jaskier is the only son in a family full of girls so he knows his way around hair and combs.

'Right then,' he declares, rising purposefully to his feet. 'Where should I start? Don't suppose you know where any of the ends are, Your Highness?'

Her eyes are still wide, the stiffness of her pose betraying her uncertainty, but the princess points towards the far side of the room.

'Marvellous.' Jaskier pauses before he heads off, turning back to her as a thought occurs to him. 'Say, you can't leave that stool, can you?'

She shakes her head, wary.

He tilts his chin at her comb. 'What's that for, then?' he asks curiously.

Surprise flickers across her expression and away, one side of her mouth turning up in a tiny smile. She points at Jaskier, using slow, clear movements, then the distant ends of her hair again and mimes combing it, pausing to check that he understands. Jaskier nods eagerly and the princess continues, holding up her invisible handful of brushed hair which she then makes an exaggerated show of bringing towards herself. Jaskier's brow furrows as he deciphers the message, snapping his fingers in triumph when he gets it.

'I bring you your hair when I'm done combing it?' he tries.

The princess nods firmly, reaching out to pick up her bundle of violet ribbons and place it in her lap. He makes an inquisitive noise but she shoos him away imperiously and he goes easily, armed with his comb.

It takes Jaskier a whole handful of minutes to find any ends of the princess's hair and when he does, there's a curtain of it draped over what seems to be a hatstand. It's got about as many knots as he expected (which is a lot) but is fairly easy to gather in one strip. Then he begins the exciting process of combing out all those knots, carefully working his way back towards the princess, despite all the furniture and hair in his way (and Jaskier is _quite_ certain it's all been placed for maximum difficulty). The princess makes a visible effort not to respond too much to Jaskier's first success but he sees the way her attention sharpens and her posture straightens as she accepts the loosely coiled silvery mass that he's wound over his shoulder like rope. She pools it at her feet and then starts dividing it into three strands with her comb to be braided into a plait.

The job of brushing all that hair is by no means a small one and Jaskier is surprised when, three thick strands later, he realises he isn't hungry or thirsty or tired. Well, no more than he was when he arrived and while he wouldn't mind a break, he doesn't need anything like _sleep_. This raises questions about the passage of time in this tower but he has the good sense not to put them to the princess. Jaskier's determination to get through all her hair, unflagging since he began, has brought out an air of cautious hope about her, though she's still far quicker to swat him with her comb than smile.

So Jaskier does what he does best - entertain. Since she can't talk (unclear whether that's part of her curse or not), he gladly fills the quiet with songs he's composed for courts and queens, and stories he's gathered from every end of the Continent. The princess makes for a poor audience to start with, staring at Jaskier like he's grown a second head when he tells her of a tale about three mountain trolls, a fire-breathing dragon, and a very unlucky shepherd and grimacing when he sings a rather charming ballad he composed for the birthday of a different princess some years ago. She puts up no real protest, however, and eventually warms to his tales, so Jaskier puts it down to the unfortunate woman being stuck inside a silent tower with only her own thoughts for company for entirely too long.

Outside the windows, sunlight gives way to the shadows of night but still Jaskier combs the princess's hair and still she plaits it. The soft hush of nightfall cultivates a slightly more intimate atmosphere in the tower, the only light coming from small bronze lanterns dotted around the room at very irregular intervals and heights, and Jaskier finds his stories taking on a more personal slant. When he at last takes a break from combing for a while, he sits by the princess while she braids and plucks out a few tunes on his lute, telling her of the town he grew up in and how he ended up as a poet instead of a "proper nobleman", as his father did so love to say.

He tells her about his sisters and shows her some other types of braids she can use instead of the very practical, very plain three-strand method. She wrinkles her nose at him like a displeased cat but lets him guide her fingers through the correct motions, flinching away only when he goes to actually hold her hands. Jaskier apologises quickly and takes care not to repeat the mistake.

  


  


  


The only way to measure time here is by the quality of light through the windows and if they're even remotely accurate, Jaskier spends two days and one night untangling the princess's hair. By the end of it, he's ready to never touch a comb ever again, no matter how haystack-like his own hair becomes, and there are several mountains of tightly braided silver-white plaits surrounding the princess, which only serves to make her look even smaller. Any thoughts of her being a helpless damsel in distress that arise at the sight, however, are swiftly shot down by her fiercely intent gold eyes that watch Jaskier's every movement like a hawk.

Jaskier sets the comb he'd borrowed back on its stool while the princess finishes her final plait, deftly weaving the last of her violet ribbons into it, and his attention falls to the gleaming scissors there, giving him pause. His mind had turned to them several times over the course of the hair brushing marathon but he'd deliberately kept from asking about them or pointing out. The princess had never touched them, never so much as looked at them, and she'd been so very relieved when he'd chosen a comb. Jaskier wonders how many suitors had fallen into the trap of suggesting they simply cut off her hair to a more manageable length. _That_ was a mistake he wouldn't have made - this is a fairy tale, after all, and they're well-known for their needlessly complex, utterly arbitrary requirements.

The princess knots her ribbon and tosses the end of the plait onto its pile, looking as relieved as Jaskier to be done with it at last.

He smiles brightly at her. 'What's next, Your Highness? If I understand correctly, finding this tower was the first test and sorting out your beautiful hair was the second one. These sorts of things usually come in threes though so -'

'There is one test left.'

Jaskier chokes in surprise as he nearly swallows his tongue. The princess is staring straight ahead, not looking at him, her slight form taut with tension.

'You... you can speak?' he squeaks.

Her hands curl into tight fists. 'Clearly.' Her voice is husky, deeper than expected. She grunts, a tiny noise of frustration, and continues, 'Only now. Only after this is done.' She jerks her chin towards the mounds of glossy hair around them.

Any signs of relaxation or warmth she was showing before have vanished and there's an anxious knot forming Jaskier's gut. On the one hand, he's a bit frightened of what the final challenge will demand of him but, on the other hand, he wants to erase the brittleness in the princess's voice, wipe away the look on her face, one that screams _I don't care I don't care I don't care I don't care_. Jaskier would recognise that expression anywhere. He'd seen it on himself for years, after all, knows it to be worn only by those who care all too much and whose hearts have been broken for it.

'Hey, Princess?' he says softly, itching to reach out and take her hands in his.

Rigid as a marble statue, she turns her head just enough to meet his gaze and oh, Jaskier's heart _aches_ for the fear he sees in those gold eyes.

'I'm not going to leave, alright? I don't care if I have to fight a dragon with my bare hands. I'm going to get you out of here.' Determination steels his tone, kindles a fire in his blood.

Her lips twist into an awfully bitter little smile. 'They all say that,' she mutters, not quite managing to suppress the waver in her voice. 'You're here to rescue the princess, aren't you? Break the curse, carry her off into the sunset, get married.'

Old pain echoes in every word.

Jaskier doesn't understand what marrying her has to do with it but he leans in, wide-eyed and serious. 'Princess,' he says firmly. 'I came here looking for the story of the Moon Tower so that I could turn it into a ballad to be sung across the Continent. I am _very_ fortunate that my search led me to you so that I could help you but I assure you, I have no intentions of forcing you into wedlock with me.' Slowly, giving her the chance to pull back, he reaches out and places a hand over top of one of her fists, giving it a light squeeze. 'If you like, I'd be more than happy to be your friend, Your Highness, but aside from lots of chattering and singing, you have nothing to fear from me. I promise.'

There are two spots of colour high in her pale cheeks and there's that bright thread of hope in her amber eyes again. Her hands slide out of Jaskier's loose grip as she suddenly stands, apparently no longer bound to sit.

'Well,' she says in a voice tight with repressed emotion, 'we'll see soon enough, won't we? Close your eyes. It's time for the last test.'

Jaskier swallows thickly before firming his jaw and doing as ordered, his ears straining to listen as his vision goes dark.

There's a soft noise like hair or fabric dragged over smooth stone, a sharp drop in pressure that makes his ears pop, and a gusty sigh that sounds... wrong. Different. Not like the princess.

'Open your eyes, Jaskier,' a deep voice, a masculine voice with a familiar husk to it, murmurs.

Jaskier's lashes flick up immediately and his breath catches in his throat.

The piles and piles of silver hair are gone. The _princess_ is gone. In her place stands a man completely her opposite - where she was short, slender, and dainty, he is at least as tall as Jaskier, twice as broad, and heavy with muscle. The cream dress has been replaced with a loose white shirt tucked into simple black trousers and sturdy leather boots.

Only the hue of his hair, long enough cover his shoulders, and the hue of his eyes is the same. Silver and gold.

Eyes that, Jaskier realises in his shocked daze, are currently wide, the sharp jaw they are set above clenched tight, the hulking body tense as a coiled spring just waiting to snap. The cues line up easily in his head.

The man is _afraid._

 _Of what?_ Jaskier wants to demand, but he remembers the princess's words, hollow and hopeless, about how all her past would-be rescuers wanted was to save and marry her. Save and marry the princess in the tower.

Save and marry the princess who is, apparently, not a princess at all.

Jaskier stands cautiously so as not to spook the twitchy man before him, though his weight still rocks back on his heels, as though bracing himself for a blow. The automatic little action breaks Jaskier's heart all over again.

'Is this your true face, Your Highness?' he asks, tone as even and free of judgement as he can make it.

Still, the man flinches, though he keeps his piercing stare locked on Jaskier's. 'Yes,' he rasps, slightly hoarse. ''M not "Your Highness". Not anymore.'

Jaskier's brow furrows faintly. Was the title a part of the whole princess persona or -

'That was a long time ago. Haven't been a - a prince for... a long time.' The man stumbles over the word slightly, distaste flickering across his handsome face.

(Really, how is it fair that he looks even _more_ beautiful than he did as a woman?)

'What can I call you then? Do you have a name?' Jaskier prods gently.

'Geralt.'

A strong name, hard around the edges but softer, more graceful in the middle.

...Fuck, that was a terrible metaphor. Bad Jaskier, _bad_ Jaskier.

He clears his throat, hastily shoving his untoward thoughts out a window in the back of his skull. 'Geralt,' Jaskier repeats, tasting the letters on his tongue and coming away satisfied. 'Well, Geralt, where's the third test then?' He keeps his voice calm and sincere, attempting to soothe the man.

Who stares at him like Jaskier's lost his mind. 'This _is_ the third test,' Geralt grunts.

Jaskier parts his lips to speak again, to ask for clarification, but then he _gets it._

_You're here to rescue the princess, aren't you?_

Oh, blessed gods, he _gets it._

'They - I have to accept you as you are,' Jaskier breathes. 'I still have to want to rescue you.'

Geralt ducks his head, his hands clenched into bloodless fists at his sides. Everything about his posture whispers of a man pushed to his limits, expecting another rejection.

'Oh, Geralt.' Jaskier can't help himself, stepping forward and brushing his fingertips against a clean-shaven jaw, encouraging him to look up. 'Of _course_ I still want to rescue you. Of course I _accept_ you. You could have turned into a shrivelled old man missing half your teeth and I wouldn't leave you here.'

Jaskier curls his fingers, applying a fraction of pressure to Geralt's face and coaxing his head up. Disbelief is bright in eyes of gilded sunshine, Geralt already pulling away in confusion, and Jaskier's poor heart fucking _shatters_.

'Don't - don't _lie_ to me,' Geralt starts, snarling and frightened, recoiling back a step.

But Jaskier isn't having a bar of it and he follows the silver-haired man, going toe to toe with him. 'I'm not lying. I promised not to leave you, didn't I? So unless you _want_ to stay here, I won't go without you.'

Geralt's stare bores into him, terrible yearning written bold across his face. 'It's been - so long.' The words are guttural, grating, like they've been dragged out of him. 'No-one stays. They all -' he swallows thickly - 'they all leave. Alone. You don't mean it.' He sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

'I _do_ mean it!' Jaskier cries. 'If you refuse to believe me, I'll just sit here with you until you do.' Suiting actions to words, he swivels on his heel and goes back to the cushioned stools.

At that, Geralt's expression sort of... crumples, a tiny wounded noise escaping his throat before he purses his lips.

'Really, I have nowhere pressing to be anytime soon.' Jaskier picks up his lute, feigning a casual air as he strums the main chords for his ballad about the Moon Tower. 'You can stand there and brood all you like, I'm going to stay here and work on my song.'

'This is ridiculous,' Geralt croaks several minutes of stalemate later.

'Mhm,' Jaskier agrees absently, fingers dancing quietly over the strings as he tries to get the chorus right.

There's a thud and Jaskier's gaze flicks up, drawing a startled breath from him when he sees Geralt slumped on his knees, hands lax on his thighs, his amber stare lost and aimless.

'Ridiculous,' he repeats weakly.

Jaskier sighs through his nose, setting the lute aside and sliding forward onto his knees too, level with Geralt. He doesn't know how to convince the no-longer-prince of his sincerity, doesn't know what to do but be as honest as he can.

'It is,' he agrees softly. 'It's ridiculous that you've been locked away in this damn tower so long at the whim of some dratted mage that you can't fathom why someone would possibly want to help free you, pretty princess or not.'

Desperate gold pours into steady blue.

'So tell me,' Geralt grinds out. 'Tell me why.'

Jaskier squares his shoulders, steels his tone. 'For one, it's the _right_ thing to do and any half-decent person would do the same, which says quite a lot about anyone's who's made it here before me. And for two, well... I care about you, Geralt. You know, it's been a while since I made a new friend and I know we haven't known each other long but that doesn't matter, we're friends now. That means I can say you _don't deserve_ to be stuck in here any longer. And you have to believe me. Because we're friends.'

Geralt looks doubtful but he's lost some of the outright disbelief.

'I mean it,' Jaskier continues earnestly. 'I'll stay right here until you're ready to leave with me.'

An internal struggle of some sort seems to be happening in Geralt, his snowy brows drawn together as he chews on his lower lip. At last he blurts out haltingly, 'I don't even - I wouldn't know -'

'I'll be your guide,' Jaskier offers with a hopeful smile. 'You can travel with me until you find somewhere you recognise or want to stay. I mean, if you want.'

'You'd... really?'

If Jaskier wasn't here witnessing it himself, he'd never have thought that such a large man could make himself sound so small, his vulnerability painfully obvious.

Itching to provide tactile comfort, Jaskier inches forward on his knees and his smile softens. 'Of course, Geralt. That's what friends do, they take care of each other.'

Geralt swallows and glances away, turning the clean-cut elegance of his profile towards the bard. Jaskier teeters on the edge of saying something more when his attention is drawn down, one of Geralt's hands making a slight, abortive twitch towards him. He inhales sharply, wide eyes darting up to Geralt's face again and -

 _Oh_.

A delicate shade of pink, blossoms in spring, is rising in Geralt's cheeks. He's _blushing_.

Jaskier's horrendously abused heart really can't keep up with how godsdamn endearing the silver-haired man is and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making an utterly inappropriate comment (namely, _you're so fucking_ _cute_ ). But this is infinitely better than Geralt looking _afraid_ of him, so Jaskier clears his throat and shuffles closer till there's barely a whisper of space between their knees.

'Geralt,' he asks very quietly, 'would you like me to hold your hand?'

Without turning his head, Geralt slants his golden gaze back towards Jaskier. He's wary but... his guard is lowered just a fraction.

'Friends... do that,' he mumbles, practically daring the bard to disagree and go back on his word.

But Jaskier is far too busy trying not to go into cardiac arrest to do anything other than splutter in a strangled sort of voice, 'They do indeed.'

With that sidelong stare a burning weight on him, he reaches out and loosely curls his hand around Geralt's, giving him plenty of leeway to escape if he should change his mind. Geralt has other ideas though, threading his thick fingers through Jaskier's and squeezing tight. Calluses, the sort that come from wielding something heavy day in and day out, scrape over Jaskier's skin, smooth except for his own marks of long labour, born of years of coaxing music from his beloved lute.

Tension seeps gradually from Geralt's stiff posture and the quiet blanketing the room lightens. Neither of them makes any move to release the other's hand.

Eventually, Geralt says gruffly, 'I'd. I'd like that. To come with you.'

Jaskier manfully swallows a squeak of delight, instead grinning brightly. 'Excellent!' he declares, promptly rising to his feet and tugging the other man up too. 'There must be at least a thousand stairs in this wretched tower so let's not delay any longer.'

As Geralt is still showing no indication of being ready to let go of Jaskier's hand, the bard simply drags him over to the stools so he can retrieve his lute. Finangling the strap over his head and across his body is a touch awkward with only one hand but he manages well enough. Geralt, bless his heart, just stands there and looks uncomfortable, like _Jaskier_ is the one keeping him here.

It's when they turn to the door in preparation to leave that Geralt freezes up, hanging back when Jaskier wound have bounded ahead. Unwilling to break their handhold, Jaskier glances at his companion and his gut clenches into an unpleasant knot at the uncertainty painted on that handsome face.

'Come on,' Jaskier murmurs, gently but insistently pulling Geralt along to the door. 'It's your turn to leave now.'

Geralt stares at the door like it might come alive and eat him but also like it's the thing he treasures most in all the world. He lifts his free hand slowly, hesitating over the dark wood. 'Don't let go, Jaskier,' he says, the plea sounding like a command.

Jaskier tightens his grip, clasping the hand in his securely. 'Wouldn't dream of it,' he replies.

The door opens easily under Geralt's touch. Before them lies the gloom of the interminable staircase and both men breathe a soft sigh of relief when they step out of the room and nothing happens. No magic hums in the air, no furious wizard appears, no reactivating curses. The desperation in Geralt's expression morphs into narrow-eyed determination and suddenly he's the one towing Jaskier along, paying no heed to the bard's yelps as they trot at a brisk pace down, down, down. It's less tiring than going up and there's a concrete sense of purpose this time, so Jaskier doesn't give more than a token grumble.

The stairs go on and on and on until suddenly they reach the tiny entrance room at the bottom, Jaskier's pack discarded to one side and the door ajar, letting in yellow light. Geralt comes to an abrupt halt, gaze riveted to the stream of sunlight on the pale stone until Jaskier's momentum nearly tips him arse over tits onto the floor. In an impressive display of reflexive skill, Geralt's other hand finds a handful of Jaskier's shirt at his waist and he firmly hauls the bard back. For a single second, Jaskier finds himself pinned to an aggressively sculpted chest before Geralt releases him - except for the handhold, of course.

'Erm, thanks,' Jaskier says, trying to slow his racing heart and hoping his sweaty palms go unnoticed (it was entirely due to his near death experience, that's it, nothing else).

Geralt's attention has already returned to the sunshine. 'Can we - can I really - go. Out there.'

The question is mangled but the intent shines through loud and clear.

'Yes,' Jaskier answers firmly, completely disregarding his pack as he leads them to the final door between Geralt and his freedom and shoves it open wider.

The mid-afternoon sun sits just so in the sky to bathe them both in a deliciously warm wash of light. A faint breeze rustles through the grass, swaying the blooms of the wildflowers, and birdsong can be heard from all around. Geralt's eyes are round as coins as he stares in absolute wonder. Jaskier smiles indulgently and leads him outside, away from the Moon Tower, until he's surrounded by grass and flowers, trees looming in the distance and the wind rifling through Geralt's silver hair.

Geralt closes his eyes, tips his head back, and breathes in deeply, as though to store all the wilderness about them in his lungs. He squeezes Jaskier's hand and the bard squeezes back, unable to tear his gaze from the beautiful man.

'Thank you, Jaskier,' Geralt says, quiet and shuddering with pent-up emotion. White lashes flutter up and molten gold meets clear blue. 'Thank you for rescuing me.' He hesitates for a brief moment, then lifts Jaskier's hand and dips his head to brush warm lips over soft skin.

Jaskier _definitely_ squeaks this time. 'Um. You're very, _very_ welcome.'

When Geralt lifts his head, there's a new lightness to his expression that sets Jaskier's blood prickling with anticipation, the hint of a true smile lurking on plush lips. He looks over his shoulder at the tower that rises up pale and slender behind them before turning deliberately away, back to Jaskier.  


'Ready to go?' Jaskier asks.  


Geralt rubs his thumb in a smooth circle over the back of the bard's hand, setting nerve endings alight as he does, and his shy smile broadens. 'Hmm,' he agrees. 

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> the title made sense when i started this i swear.
> 
> im experimenting with paragraph sizes, lemme know if you reckon they need to be broken up more, not split up so much, etc.


End file.
